Cosplay
by The Raisin Girl
Summary: Castiel goes websurfing, Dean is flabbergasted, and apparently threatening him with guns wasn't enough to stop Chuck from publishing more books. Rated T mostly for language.


"Dean," Castiel says out of the blue. "What is cosplay?"

Dean freezes, looks up from the television, and curses his laxity in deleting his internet history.

"Why do you ask?" He counters cautiously.

"I came across a website that seems to exclusively feature photographs of young people in strange clothing. Amongst them, I found this." He turns the screen around. Dean braces himself, and then takes a peek.

It's a photograph of a teenage girl. She has green eyes and sandy brown hair that falls across her shoulders in waves. Her tanned, freckled face seems far too young for its belligerent expression, with its clenched jaw and guarded eyes. She's wearing a simple black tank top with jeans and black boots, and a dark brown leather jacket. The edge of a familiar-looking tattoo is barely visible above the neckline of her shirt, and—most disturbingly—there's a thin leather cord around her neck, dangling a bronze charm over her breastbone.

"What the hell…" Dean breathes. She's _him_. She's him to a T, down to the way her feet are planted. She's him the way only someone who'd been inside his head could be him, which could only mean—

He suddenly registers that Cas is still talking, voice low and urgent. "—appear to be imposters of some kind. I suggest we deal with this immediately." He begins to stand, shoulders tense, and Dean is sure he's about to fly off.

"Woah, hold on there, Avenging Angel." Dean stops him with a hand on his shoulder. "They're just kids. They're playing dress-up."

Castiel looks at Dean for a long moment, then back to the screen.

"So…this cosplay. It's…dress-up?"

"Yeah," Dean huffs. "People who dress as their favorite characters from TV shows and stuff. It's weird, but harmless."

"But these cosplayers…why are they dressed as you and I?"

_You and I? _That's when the other shoe drops for Dean, and he takes another look at the photo. Sure enough, there's someone else in the photo, standing slightly behind the first girl's left shoulder. The figure is in a dark suit with a blue tie—it's even tied crooked—and a tan trench coat. Dean thinks it might be another girl, even if her dark hair is cut short and choppy and her figure is obscured by the bulky outfit. Even her facial features are difficult to make out; she's cast in shadow, and slightly out of focus. The name of the photo, he notices, is "Angel On My Shoulder."

"Holy…" Dean trails, and no pun is intended. He leans further over the table, practically in Castiel's lap, and clicks the mouse to the next photo.

It's the same two girls—yes, they're definitely both girls—but this time Dean-girl is out of focus, a blurry profile in the foreground. The rest of the image is dominated by the Castiel-girl, and Dean has to admit the resemblance is just this side of freaky.

Castiel-girl is standing on a wooden dock beside a tranquil lake, looking surreptitiously down at Dean-girl where she is seated to her left. She's in the same clothes, but what really draws Dean's attention is her expression. Her pale, heart-shaped face is drawn in lines of longing and confusion, brow furrowed and mouth frowning. Her blue eyes—not as bright as Castiel's, but still big and expressive enough to almost make up for it—are almost anguished as she steals a glance at Dean-girl without turning her body from its position facing the lake.

The name of the photo is "Angel In My Head."

"Oh, I am going to kill Chuck Shurley," Dean growls. "Prophet or not."

Castiel is quiet. Dean turns to look at him and gets a face full of angel, bright eyes locking on his for a moment before sliding away and down in a way that is suspiciously reminiscent of a gesture of human shame.

"Cas?" Dean's voice is gentle now, and he is definitely going to wring Chuck's neck, but good. He grips the angel's shoulder in what he hopes is a reassuring way.

"Hey, you okay?" Castiel meets his eyes again briefly, then scowls darkly at the screen over Dean's shoulder.

"Some things are not meant to be recorded," he says cryptically. Then, gesturing at the screen, "there are two more photos according to these numbers."

Dean turns away to look where Cas is pointing. Sure enough, it says "2 of 4" below the picture. He glances back at Cas to see his own morbid, albeit reluctant, curiosity reflected at him in shades of blue. He sighs and turns his attention to the screen, maneuvering his mouse to the "next" button.

"Well, hell, why not?" He mutters, and clicks.

When the picture comes up, Dean thinks maybe his stomach bottoms out. He immediately regrets this decision. He can't make sense of what he's seeing and he can't look away. At his back he feels Castiel go stone still as well, not even breathing.

Both girls are in sharp focus this time, framed front and center. The scene is familiar enough; it's a nondescript hotel bathroom, subtly grimy and dimly lit. But what is unfamiliar—what abso-fucking-lutely has _never_ happened—is the way Dean-girl is tangling a hand in Cas-girl's short, spikey hair, the way Cas-girl is pressing against Dean-girl until she is bending backward over the sink a little, the way Cas-girl has a hand shoved under Dean-girl's short-sleeved t-shirt, pressing hard against a fading handprint on her left shoulder.

The way Dean-girl is kissing Cas-girl like it's her fucking _job _and she's going for employee of the month.

Before he can do or say anything, Cas is reaching around him to click "next." Dean swallows back the protest he feels leap inexplicably to his lips, then has his feet knocked out from under him all over again when the final photo loads.

Dean-girl is lying in what could be any number of cheap motel beds, eyes closed and face peaceful in a way Dean doubts his ever is. She's in shorts and a tank top, her bare arms and legs curled around and tangled with those of the other figure on the bed.

Cas-girl is down to her dress pants and shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbows and top two buttons undone. Dean thinks he can make out a rumpled jacket and trench coat discarded haphazardly on the floor, but he can't spare the attention for that now. He can't stop staring at _her_, at the way she's staring at the girl in her arms, blue eyes alight with some soft emotion that thrills Dean, but scares him, too.

"Dean—" Cas speaks behind him, making him jump. Abruptly, he becomes aware that he is sitting so close to Cas that their legs are tangled together. He can feel Castiel's breath on his neck. He shivers and pulls back, stands, stretches. He avoids Cas's eyes when he speaks.

"Yeah, the cosplay is harmless, but I say we pay Chuck a visit all the same. I'd kinda like to put a lid on this whole 'complete strangers knowing all my private thoughts and feelings' deal."

Castiel's head snaps up at that, and he looks at Dean with wide, surprised eyes that Dean pointedly ignores. He walks out of the room, calling over his shoulder.

"Gear up, Cas! We got a prophet to intimidate."

* * *

A week later, Dean wakes from a fitful sleep to find Castiel sitting near his bed, wide awake and watchful. Dean groans and rolls to face him, glaring up at him through sleep-heavy eyes.

"Cas," he says gruffly, "If you're gonna do that all night you could at least be less creepy about it. C'mere."

Castiel looks puzzled and surprised, but he stands and removes his shoes. He drapes his trench coat and jacket over the back of a chair, and Dean grin, thinks that those girls got at least one thing wrong. Then Cas is sliding into bed beside him, curling on his side so they're facing each other. Their knees touch, just barely, under the covers. Dean feels the warmth of Castiel's body so near to his and lets out a sigh that's just shy of relieved. He curls himself closer to Cas until his forehead is resting against the angel's shoulder.

Dean sleeps, and Castiel watches him, and he sees it: eyes closed and jaw unclenched, Dean looks like a totally different man. His expression is utterly serene, and when Castiel reaches out to card long, thin fingers though his hair, Dean huffs happily and leans into the contact automatically without waking up.

Castiel smiles and sends a quick prayer of thanks Heavenwards for young women who cosplay.

* * *

**Author's Note:** I don't know. I was half asleep when this landed in my head. If anyone's wondering, Sam's around, he's just...I dunno. Off doing other things. Listening to music that Dean hates or trimming his sideburns of something. I just didn't have a way to work him into this particular fic, so it didn't happen.

-The Raisin Girl


End file.
